


on my knees and out of luck, i look up

by ewelinakl



Series: between the lines [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Non-Graphic Smut, Post-Shard of Ice (The Witcher), Soft Boys, i just love these two idiots a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:46:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22305127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ewelinakl/pseuds/ewelinakl
Summary: Geralt groaned, sitting down next to the bard. “What do you want me to do instead? Hm?” he asked.“I don’t know.” Jaskier threw up his hands. “Something else. Something you haven’t done before.”So Geralt kissed him._________________________________Geralt rides into a small town in the middle of nowhere and finds Jaskier there.Set post Shard of Ice.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, past Geralt/Yennefer - Relationship
Series: between the lines [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1615669
Comments: 22
Kudos: 422





	on my knees and out of luck, i look up

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from 'after the storm' by Mumford and Sons

It was late when Geralt rode into the town. It was barely more than a village, really, but it had a wall surrounding it, a few sleepy guards at the gates, and probably a weekly fair, which was enough to make it a town. The guards let him in without much questioning. The cold was piercing, the darkness thick and heavy, and the guards surely wanted to get back to the gatehouse, where they had a few logs burning in the fireplace and a sizable casket of liquor.

Roach snorted, as they entered the town, tired and unhappy with the weather. Geralt patted her on the neck.

“Don’t worry, girl, I’ll find you a good place to rest,” he told her.

Roach replied with another snort and a toss of her head.

The inn was easy to spot — the only well-lit building in the entire town. Geralt led Roach to the stables, tossing the stable-hand a coin for taking good care of her. He didn’t have much money and he didn’t want to part with it so quickly and easily, but he just couldn’t force the poor horse to sleep outside again, especially in such weather. She deserved a warm stable, fresh hay, and a good serving of oats. He patted her on the neck one more time, before retrieving what little belongings he carried with him.

When he walked into the inn, everyone turned their heads to look at him. It was just a handful of men, locals, sitting in small groups of three or four, deep into their steins, judging by the redness of their cheeks and the unfocused gazes they fixed on Geralt. He paid them no attention, slowly making his way to the counter.

“I need a room for the night,” he said.

The innkeeper licked his lips, eyes darting to the sides, before he replied. “Sorry, sir, it’s a small inn we have, only one room for rent here, and we already got a guest tonight.”

Geralt let out a deep sigh. That was his luck. Poor Roach, she was probably just getting comfortable.

“I’m really sorry, sir,” the innkeeper said hastily. “I could perhaps ask around, see if someone—.”

He broke off, when the door upstairs slammed against the wall. Geralt looked up, narrowing his eyes, flexing, ready to draw the sword. But then —

“Master! Bring me some ale! And I asked for a fire, not cinder!”

Geralt smiled. Right, that was just his luck to ride into a small town in the middle of nowhere and ask for a room, only to find out that it was already taken by —

“Jaskier,” he said, just loud enough for the bard to hear him.

He heard the soft gasp and the quick steps on the stairs, and then from around the corner emerged Jaskier — in ridiculous, burgundy trousers, unlaced embroidered shirt, and hair a mess. He must’ve been trying to compose a new ballad. He beamed when he saw Geralt.

“Geralt!” he called, jumping down a few steps at a time. “Geralt the Witcher! I swear we keep running into each other in the strangest of places. You’re looking for a room, I suppose? Well, this good man here only has one for rent,” Geralt wanted to say he already knew that, but Jaskier wasn’t letting him speak, “and I’m afraid I already got it. But you can stay with me, of course. There, master innkeeper, bring us the ale and the apple cider. Then set a proper fire in the hearth, I want to hear it roar, my good man, roar like a true beast. Then bring the supper for my friend and draw him a bath, he definitely needs one. You stink, Geralt. And I hope I’m wrong saying that it’s blood in your hair.”

Geralt only grunted in response. There was no point in saying anything now, Jaskier wouldn’t listen. And sure enough, all the poet did, was twirl around, clap his hands, and just continue his torrent of words.

“And cheese, master innkeeper, I am in the mood for good cheese. Some fruit would be good, as well, I doubt you’ll have figs at this time of the year, but perhaps a nice, crispy apple? And then—.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt cut him off, grabbing him by the sleeve, giving him a pointed look. The innkeeper seemed very lost, staring at the bard with eyes and mouth wide open. Geralt tried to smile at him. “Ale, supper, bath,” he said. “That will be all. Thank you, good man.”

The innkeeper nodded, turning around, most likely to draw the beer for them.

“And fire!” Jaskier called after him, standing on his tiptoes. “Don’t forget about the fire! Well, come, Geralt, make yourself comfortable. It’s not Novigrad, you know, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

He threw up his hands in a dramatic gesture, beginning to climb the stairs. Geralt followed.

“You certainly don’t sound like a beggar,” he noted. “You sound like you have quite some money. Do you really, or are we going to have to flee very fast and fake our deaths tomorrow morning?”

Jaskier scoffed, looking at him over his shoulder. “Really, witcher? Would I ever do such a thing?” Geralt only raised his eyebrows, making Jaskier giggle. “Well, I suppose I could do such a thing, if in a pinch. But it’s not one of such situations, mind you. I do, indeed, have quite some money, courtesy of Lady de Wit, who was so kind to offer me a not-so-small pouch, when I was forced to flee from her manor before her husband came back from the hunt.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “And here I was thinking you might’ve earned it honestly.”

“I did sing many beautiful ballads to Lady de Wit,” Jaskier said innocently, opening the door to their room. “And I played her like a lute until he made the sweetest sounds.”

Geralt scoffed, walking in. The room was spacious and the bed big enough to fit the two of them comfortably. But, as expected, it was a huge mess. Jaskier’s clothes and toiletries were scattered across the bed and every chair, while the table and most of the floor were covered in paper. He definitely was trying to compose.

“I’m going to clean it, don’t worry,” Jaskier said, just scooping up all the papers from the table and dumping them into a pile in the corner. After a second of deliberation, he pushed the pages scattered across the floor into the same place with his foot. “There, you can eat here, while I sort through my clothes. They’re all wrinkled from being kept in the saddlebags, it’s a disaster, really.”

Geralt didn’t pay much attention to the rest of Jaskier’s clothing-related rambling, because the innkeeper brought a keg of ale along with Geralt’s supper — a thick stew of meat and vegetables, smelling strongly of garlic and herbs, and a small loaf of fresh bread. Geralt’s stomach rumbled at the scent of it.

“There, master witcher,” the innkeeper said, setting a tray on the table and bowing his head. He’d been far calmer before Jaskier disclosed Geralt’s profession. “Call me, when you’re finished, I will have the boy draw you a bath.”

“Thank you,” Geralt said, trying to keep his voice as soft as possible.

The innkeeper left, giving him another bow at the door. Geralt sighed, slumping into a chair and grabbing a spoon. Jaskier still talked. Geralt didn’t mind. He ate the stew without rushing, savouring the blend of herbs and spices. This might be a small provincial inn, but the food wasn’t any worse than in the famous restaurants of Novigrad.

“Geralt! Do you even listen to me?”

Geralt turned his face to Jaskier, still chewing on the meat and ripping the bread into bite-sized portions. “No,” he admitted. “Are you saying anything important?”

Jaskier made a face at him, flicking another pair of trousers, this time in bright teal. He muttered something under his breath, undeniably a string of insults for Geralt. Geralt didn’t care, Jaskier never meant any of his insults — except for those addressed at Valdo Marx, perhaps. And even if he did mean them this time, the stew and bread were worth it.

In the end, Jaskier let him finish his meal, have a pint of ale, and get in the bath, before attacking with his nosy questions.

“So?” he asked, flinging himself across the bed. “Why are you here?”

Geralt slid a little bit lower into the water until it covered his shoulders. “Just passing by,” he said.

Jaskier snorted. “Really, Geralt? And I’m supposed to fall for that? I know you, witcher. It’s that witch of yours again, isn’t it?” Geralt only sighed. “Knew it. Why you keep torturing yourself this way is beyond me, really. I suppose you might have some tendencies I hadn’t expected from you. Well, to each their own, as they say. You should shave, Geralt, you look awful with a beard.”

“I don’t have a razor.”

“Oh, you can use mine, there, wait, I had it somewhere here.” Geralt let his eyelids fall and only listened to Jaskier rummaging through his bags in search of his shaving utensils. “I shaved just a few hours ago, where the hell did I put it? Here? No. Oh! There it is.”

Geralt opened a hand, but the bard only swatted it. Judging by the sounds, he was dragging a chair to the bathtub. Geralt turned his head to look. “What are you doing?”

“When was the last time you shaved without cutting your face open, Geralt? What does it look like I’m doing?”

Geralt sighed again, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. He was bone-tired, and the hot water and Jaskier’s delicate hands covering his jaw and cheeks in soap felt good and relaxing.

“So? Are you going to tell me what exactly happened this time?” Jaskier asked, bringing the soap down Geralt’s neck. “Or are you planning to let it choke you?”

Geralt told him, slowly, stopping every few sentences to let Jaskier scrape the stubble off his face with more care than any barber ever showed a witcher. He told Jaskier everything of Yen and Istredd, of that stuffy little town, the stupid duel idea, and how Yen left them both in the end with nothing but a kestrel that was just as fake as the idea that they could be happy with each other, long-term. Hadn’t Villentretenmerth warned them, why were they still trying, despite all the signs, all the heartbreak and resentment.

“Well,” Jaskier said after a while, wiping Geralt’s face with a warm towel. “I suppose that wish of yours has something to do with all this. Also, love is blind, Geralt. Love is stupid, it’s like a dog that doesn’t understand that some foods make it sick, so it keeps eating them, just to throw them up. And then eat what it threw up,” he added, spreading some woody-scented oil over Geralt’s face.

“What’s this?” Geralt asked to avoid the conversation on love and dogs.

“Rosehip oil. Contrary to popular belief, I am not an immortal vampire, I owe my youthful looks to good skincare. There, done, haul yourself out of that bath before it grows cold.”

Geralt did. What did Yennefer once call him? A servile golem? He winced, pulling on his pants.

“Let me guess,” Jaskier said, sitting on the bed, watching Geralt put on a shirt. “She dumped you, so you embarked on yet another journey consisting of killing monsters. Sooner or later you’ll end up killing some people, as well, which you’re going to hate yourself for. Then you’ll find a girl, sleep with her and regret it, because try as she might, she’ll never be Yennefer, and you’ll resent her for it.”

Geralt groaned, sitting down next to the bard. “What do you want me to do instead? Hm?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” Jaskier threw up his hands. “Something else. Something you haven’t done before.”

So Geralt kissed him.

It was a ridiculous instinct, a need to close this fool’s mouth, a desperate yearning for comfort. Jaskier gasped softly, a sound of pure shock, and Geralt drew back, swallowing.

“Not an outcome I was expecting,” Jaskier said slowly, his fingertips brushing against his lips. “Do it again, witcher.”

Geralt did, without thinking. This time Jaskier was ready for him, with his curious silver tongue and sharp teeth, shifting closer, resting a hand against Geralt’s thigh, and Geralt thought that they might as well, why not, their friendship survived several near-death experiences and the hurricane Yennefer, why wouldn’t it survive this.

Jaskier’s skin was hot underneath his shirt. It was soft, and smooth, not a single scar, just the straight lines of his spine and shoulder blades. Geralt pulled him closer, until the bard straddled his lap. He moved his lips along Jaskier’s jaw and down onto his neck where the woody scent of rosehip was almost intoxicating. How could Geralt have never noticed it? Jaskier smelled of rosehip and chamomile, of a sunny summer day, of warmth.

“Bite me, witcher,” Jaskier purred, back arching under Geralt’s hands.

Geralt did, no longer a servile golem, but a curious man, wanting to see what reaction he was going to elicit. Jaskier shuddered in his grasp, letting out a low moan that traveled down Geralt’s spine with a jolt of excitement. He bit harder into the soft skin under Jaskier’s jaw, sucking gently, making Jaskier buckle his hips and whimper ever so softly.

Geralt wanted more — more of the sounds, more of the view, more of everything — so he tugged at Jaskier’s shirt, getting him to raise his arms and shrug it off. Geralt had seen him naked many times, but he’d never really paid attention, so now he was thrilled to discover the small waist, the soft fair hair trailing down from Jaskier’s navel, the pink flush of his chest. He bit into the skin under the collarbone, making Jaskier gasp and dig his nails into Geralt’s shoulders.

“Geralt,” he murmured.

He didn’t need to say anything more, this was enough to bring Geralt’s hands down to the lacing of his trousers, try to undo them as quick as possible, while his lips sought Jaskier’s. Jaskier met him halfway, lips already parted for him, hips rising up to let Geralt yank the trousers down. Jaskier sighed into his mouth when Geralt took hold of him, just to stroke lightly.

“Wait,” Jaskier said, sliding off Geralt’s lap, turning around to grab a small vial from the chair he sat on, while shaving Geralt. He threw it to the witcher. “Might come in handy,” he said, pulling his trousers down. He stepped out of them, rushing back into Geralt’s lap, pressing against the witcher’s chest, leaning in for another hungry kiss.

Geralt’s hands groped all over his lower body, the perfect curve of his ass, the lean thighs, the dips of his hip-bones. Jaskier opened the vial, pouring the oil over Geralt’s hands, rutting against him, making it very clear what he wanted. Geralt gave him all that and more, sinking his teeth into the bard’s shoulder. Something about being fully clothed, while Jaskier was butt-naked and squirming in his lap made it feel quite overwhelming. Jaskier’s fists were closed on Geralt’s shirt, nails digging into the flesh underneath.

There were many things about it that Geralt probably should’ve expected, but somehow didn’t — the scent of rosehip and chamomile; just how perfect and unblemished Jaskier’s skin was; the sounds, gods, the sounds, so loud they must’ve carried downstairs, they must’ve been heard by the innkeeper and the patrons. But it didn’t matter, because at one point Jaskier whispered ‘Geralt’, which should’ve been warning enough, but Geralt’s mind was too preoccupied with the taste of salt on Jaskier’s skin and the way his sweat-soaked hair curled ever so slightly to read it, and before he knew, Jaskier was coming all over his shirt, low moan on his lips, head falling down to rest against Geralt’s shoulder, body growing slack in Geralt’s arms.

Geralt ran his fingers up and down Jaskier’s spine, feeling each vertebra, turning his head to the side to catch Jaskier’s lips in another kiss, this time slow and soft. But Jaskier escaped him again, sliding out of his embrace with the grace of a fox jumping over snares. He grabbed Geralt’s coat from the chair where he’d hung it before, throwing it on the floor unceremoniously. Geralt was about to protest — this wasn’t a bad coat, really, it served him well for the past few winters — but Jaskier dropped to his knees between his legs. And if he needed Geralt’s coat for it, so be it, because he looked... Geralt couldn’t find words that would be enough to describe the blue of Jaskier’s eyes peeking through tousled hair, the pale pink of his lips curved into a small smile, the sleek lines of his neck and collar bones bruised by Geralt’s teeth.

Jaskier’s clever fingers that could play the lute so well now unlaced the fastening of Geralt’s trousers and wrapped around him, squeezing just enough to make a desperate sound swell in his throat. Geralt tried to hold it back, but it escaped, as soon as Jaskier’s mouth wrapped around him, hotter than hell. Jaskier’s blue, blue eyes looked deep into Geralt’s as his silver tongue did things not even Yennefer could do, making the witcher groan like a dying boar, possibly scaring away a few patrons downstairs. He slid his fingers into Jaskier’s hair, sweaty, but still soft and smelling of nothing but chamomile. Chamomile and rosehip, how could he have never noticed it?

“Fuck, Jaskier,” he rasped in the end, trying to hold back until Jaskier let him out of his mouth.

But Jaskier didn’t, his tongue and fingers bringing Geralt to the edge step by step, and he was too weak to resist this song. He tugged gently on Jaskier’s hair, trying to get him to back away, but Jaskier only let out a quiet growl of protest that made Geralt lose his balance and fall into the abyss, right where the pied piper’s song was leading him.

When Jaskier finally drew back, Geralt could only drop onto the bed, his mind blank and quiet for the first time in weeks.

“Fuck, Jaskier,” he mumbled a long while later. “Where did you learn that?”

Jaskier laughed, standing up and stretching. “Here and there,” he said, walking up to the table to pour some ale into the stein. “Maybe I’ll tell you one day, but not now,” he added, taking two sips of beer and then handing the rest of it to Geralt. “Now I need some beauty sleep if you’ll excuse me.”

Geralt downed the beer, while Jaskier climbed onto the bed, butt-naked as he was. The bruises on his neck were already turning vicious purple. They probably didn’t hurt yet, Jaskier’s body was still overridden with adrenaline, but soon enough they would begin to sting. Geralt stood up to check his luggage. He should have some arnica in the medicine case. Finding it took him far less time than Jaskier had needed to find his razor. He grabbed the jar, leaving the stein on the table along the way.

He sat on the bed, putting a generous amount of cream onto the bite marks on Jaskier’s neck, making him flinch as if he’d just woken up. “What the—,” Jaskier gasped, jerking up.

“Arnica,” Geralt said.

Jaskier blinked a few times, shaking his head. “What?”

“Arnica,” Geralt repeated, spreading the cream gently. “For the bruises. They’ll hurt a lot less and fade quicker.”

“Mhm,” Jaskier murmured, letting his head rest on the mattress again. “Don’t stop,” he added after a moment. “Feels good.”

Geralt massaged the medicine into every swollen patch of red and purple, standing out against Jaskier’s pale skin. The poet purred softly, tilting his head to offer Geralt better access.

“They’re still going to take a few days to fade,” Geralt said, pressing his fingers against a particularly vicious bruise, where he could count just how many teeth he’d sunk into Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier hissed quietly, his breath hitching. “You might be out of luck with the ladies for a while.”

Jaskier snorted, his lips curling into a knowing smirk. “You’d be surprised how much more interested some women are when they think you belong to someone else,” he said. “But I’m in no rush to find myself a new muse. I intend to follow you around for some time, witcher. There are many things I want to do to you.”

Geralt put the jar of arnica away. “You’ll need to schedule some breaks,” he said, yanking the blankets from under Jaskier’s body. “Considering your spending habits, I’ll need to get back to monster-hunting as soon as we leave this town,” he added, laying down next to Jaskier, who opened one eye to give him a disapproving look.

“Are you planning to sleep in a come-stained shirt?” he asked, raising a brow.

Geralt sighed, taking the shirt off and discarding it on the floor. Jaskier hummed in approval, immediately moving closer, resting his head on Geralt’s chest and throwing one leg over his thighs.

“Well, the list of things I want to do is quite long, and I’m not as young as I look,” Jaskier said. “Besides, I’m in the middle of writing something big,” he added, waving a hand toward the pile of papers in the corner. “We’ll definitely be scheduling some breaks. But it’s bad taste to talk business in bed, witcher. Bed is a sacred space, an altar of love and dreams. We ought to respect that.”

Geralt only snorted, throwing the blanket over Jaskier, resting his chin on the top of the poet’s head, inhaling the scent of chamomile deep into his lungs.

“Sleep then, bard,” Geralt said.


End file.
